


you're not really here (I wanna be next to you)

by leiascully



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-04
Updated: 2009-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't an accident, when Lee kisses Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're not really here (I wanna be next to you)

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: between 3.18 and 3.19  
> A/N: For [**coffeesuperhero**](http://coffeesuperhero.livejournal.com/), who blushed. For [**dashakay**](http://dashakay.livejournal.com/), who teaches me things even as she fixes my fic. For the sheer and utter brain-breaking hotness of Lee and Sam in all their unclothed glory. Title is from "Black &amp; Gold" by Sam Sparro.  
> Disclaimer: _Battlestar Galactica_ and all related characters belong to Ronald Moore, NBC Universal, Sci-Fi Channel, and Sky One. No infringement is intended and no profit is made from this.

It isn't an accident, when Lee kisses Sam.

Granted, he's drunk as a frakking skunk, and Sam's spaced to hell on painkillers, and they're both strung out on grief and desperation, looking for anything that reminds them of Kara, but it isn't an accident. Lee has a moment to think, the same way he had a moment before he pulled the trigger on the _Olympic Carrier_. He lets his mouth crash against Sam's anyway. He'll be paying for the rest of his frakking life: one more sin won't break him.

It's like kissing Kara and it isn't. Sam doesn't taste like Kara - no cigar smoke, no whiskey - and all that stubble sure as hell doesn't feel like Kara, but he fights like Kara, his hands coming up to grip Lee's forearms. Lee leans in, fights back, gets one knee into Sam's rack and uses the leverage to push Sam down.

They have the bunk to themselves. Everyone's at Joe's, playing Pyramid, getting tipsy, catching a quick grope in the corridor or the break room or the mess. Lee didn't want to deal with anyone else tonight, just spun the lock closed behind him. No boots outside - this wasn't that kind of party, just Lee with a bottle to himself and Sam knocking back two pills and propping his cast on three pillows, sharing fragments of Kara stories, because frak, it's killing them both, they might as well share the pain.

And now they're kissing, because after a while, they were out of stories they wanted to tell (Lee can hear the stories they don't want to tell, can taste them, can taste her, lords, he's all caught up in the memory of that tender place on the back of her hip ) and Sam's memory-fogged face was just so frakking exactly what Lee felt, that confused, wary longing that he used to see in Kara's eyes too, that he just leaned over and pinned Sam.

Sam doesn't stay pinned. Sam isn't Dee or Gianne or Kara in a docile moment. Sam is all muscle under him, shoving back, but he's kissing back too. His mouth is hot and slick, full of teeth and insistent tongue, and he makes this little grunting noise that shoots down Lee's spine. Maybe it's just been too long - there's no way Lee would ask Dee even if she'd let him close - or maybe it's that they're both so gone on Starbuck that it doesn't matter that the only way she's in this rack is in their minds, but it's working. Lee's hard and aching, pressing down for the sensation of Sam's thigh against his cock, and Sam's nudging back, hips and tongue both thrusting against Lee's.

This should be stranger than it is. He's half-humping his dead lover's husband, his head full of memories of blonde hair and pale skin. There are no wings on the jacket thrown over the chair he dragged up next to Sam's rack. Kara's gone, really frakking truly out of his life this time. But all he can think is how godsdamn comforting it is to have skin against his, and what a godsdamn thrill, the way Sam shifts under him. It's different. Sam doesn't yield. Even high and broken, Sam's strong, rough, enough like himself that Lee understands the way Sam's body feels. Gods know they're both thinking of Kara, which is also weird, but somehow it works. Lee can't care about should or shouldn't when Sam is alive under him, lips chapped, his hands clamped on Lee's forearms.

The skin around Lee's mouth burns, but he keeps gulping at Sam like Sam's a well in the desert Lee's been lost in for years. Sam's got his legs spread, trying to keep the weight off the broken one, and it's easy for Lee to slide in on top. It's like settling into the Viper for the first time, finding the fit, but Sam's broad chest is comfortable. Lee's leg is resting between Sam's thighs, and it's a stretch to line up groins and mouths at the same time, but not impossible. Sam's tall, long bones stretched out in a rack. It's not like Lee ever forgot it, but it was easier with Kara. The two of them were on a level. His brain tells him that really this is just a different kind of level, and Lee shuts it up with more kissing, grinding his cock against Sam's thigh until they both groan.

It's too hot. Lee pushes up on one arm: he's forgotten how awkward it is, undressing in the shallow space of a rack, but he manages to skin his sweater off as Sam struggles out of his tanks. There's not enough contact, even leaning to catch Sam's mouth, and Lee almost tackles Sam back into the pillow, notching his ribs against Sam's. He's immersed in Sam's slick mouth, the scrape of Sam's face, the strength of Sam's arms, the comfort of Sam's memories. It's the two of them and most of ten years of remembering Kara between them in this rack. But it's still too hot, and not enough skin, though they're pressed together from collarbone to hipbone.

Lee swears under his breath, levers up again, and tears at the tie of Sam's pants, dragging them off Sam's hips. Sam tugs the button of Lee's pants and Lee rolls out of the rack and just sheds the damn things along with his boxer-briefs: he's naked, panting, and Sam's all skin to mid-thigh, and it's got to be enough because Lee can't wait. He spits into his palm and slides his hand around his cock, a little lubrication to supplement the slickness of their sweating bodies and the gleam of moisture he can see on Sam's shaft already. He eases back into the rack, watching for Sam's cast, sliding just until the head of his cock is pressed into Sam's stomach, the two of them fitting together with an almost audible sense of right, something clicking into place. Sam sucks in a breath and Lee lets one out. The friction of hair and skin is incredible; Lee can't help thrusting and Sam thrusts back, hips jumping against Lee's, and Lee presses down and forward and gods, it's been a while. It's like wrestling, the hold they have on each other, the rawness of the thing between them. Lee's tags jingle as he leans up to find Sam's hungry mouth; Sam curls up to meet him halfway. Lee likes that: compromise. He slams back down against Sam until his tags jab into their breastbones: just one more sensation on the way to overload, pleasure and pain mixed together, a lesson they both learned from the woman who isn't there. But gods, there's friction, there's power, and Lee's blood is molten in his veins. His vision blurs into mirage, heat lines shimmering in front of his eyes until he can hardly see Sam. Sam's groans vibrate through both of them. Lee can feel his skin burning, both of them searing in the white-hot furnace of guilty, grieving pleasure.

It's not wrong somehow if they don't touch each other any place below the waist, at least with hands or lips. If it's just their two bare cocks rubbing between belly and thigh; Sam can nip at Lee's ear to make him jump, Lee can find the muscle of Sam's shoulder with his tongue, and it's all right. Lee can't slide his hand down between them, can't wrap his fingers around Sam's cock, can't make a fist in the curls at the nape of Sam's neck. He thinks of Kara doing the same thing, leaning into Sam's mouth, her hips jammed against Sam's, asking for more, and catches his breath a little. He thinks of Kara's fingers under his balls, the spot she always found, like she had crosshairs in her fingertips to deliver the shot that took him out. Sam swears, quietly, as Lee grunts against Sam's neck.

Sweat and spit aren't slick enough. Lee grits his teeth at the pressure as his skin catches against Sam's. Sam reaches a hand over his head, fumbles in the little storage space, and presses a glob of lotion into Lee's palm. Lee hisses through his teeth and shoves his hand down past the hard knob of Sam's hip, finding his own shaft and Sam's, slathering them both so that they groan in relief. Lee's fingers are caught between them; it's strange to half-feel his hand on his cock while the rest is filled up by Sam's, but gods, at least he knows what to do, how to hold them both, where to press. The tightening starts at the nape of his neck and gathers momentum down his spine, making his shoulders shake and his abs clutch against Sam's belly.

"Hey," he groans, a warning, but Sam just slides his big hand down Lee's back like a storm coming on, bringing the tension with it, and grabs Lee's ass, pulling him closer. His hips buck until Lee has to slip an arm under Sam or risk being thrown. Sam grinds up and up, his jaw clenched . Lee gasps, his head tipping back, trying to breathe, and pushes his fingers under Sam's balls, pressing right where Kara taught him, and Sam bites down on Lee's shoulder, his cock pulsing. Lee feels the hot stickiness, pushes into it, and lets go.

It's like being spaced again, if space were a warm, welcoming, bright place, but the breathlessness is the same, the lack of gravity, the way Lee feels flung out of his body. There's a glimpse of blue eyes; a slice of cheekbone; an impression of dark curls plastered down by sweat; a thumping pulse against his bones. He comes down slow, flat against the breadth of Sam's heaving chest, his forehead jammed against Sam's collarbone. They pant together, drenched, a tangle of arms and legs.

Somehow Sam's worked himself out of his pants, but only the leg that isn't propped up. Lee can feel skin all along the length of his body. It's homey, like the half-remembered feeling of hot tubs and bubble baths. He's submerged in Sam, in the circle of Sam's arms and the rhythms of Sam's body. It takes him a long moment to shift, pushing himself up with arms and legs that shiver. He tries to be careful of Sam's cast but somehow there's a damp mark on it. Sam flings out his arms, still gasping like a man saved from drowning. Lee understands. After nearly stifling, their bodies are crying out to live. Lee feels his lungs fill, imagining the oxygen permeating his cells and brightening his blood. He hasn't wanted to live for a while. Since the end of the worlds, maybe, only Kara kept him breathing, kept saving him. Sam shakes his head, laughing, and groans again.

Lee finds a washcloth and somebody's flask. He sniffs: water. He dampens the washcloth and tosses it to Sam. Sam wipes himself down as Lee drags on his pants and sweater. Lee holds out his hand.

"I'll leave it in the head."

Sam tosses the cloth over. Lee catches it. It reeks of sex. He'll rinse it in the sink, wash himself, rinse it again, leave it for someone else to find and rinse. On a warship, these things get passed around. Sam is struggling back into his pants. Lee picks up his mostly-empty bottle.

One more story not to tell. One more mouth to forget.


End file.
